March 21, 2020

Today is Wednesday, and this is my first blog entry. I’ll post other stories I've written in the past and note on them what day I wrote them. I'm retired from working for a company, and I draw a pension. So, I have the freedom to travel, work at home, and sit on my porch and write. I call these 'Porch Stories,' and I write them because I have time to do so; I've always wanted to write, and at 68 years old, I have something to say. Wither you wish to read, it is up to you.

My home is on a farm in Eastern North Carolina. I came to live here in 1955 when I was three years old. My parents divorced, and I was taken in my mother’s sister and her husband. My childhood was a paradox. What appeared to be the perfect setting for a young boy to grow up – woods, creeks, mud, and a pony named Tony – was not the ideal place. I grieved over not being with my siblings and my parents. I didn't realize how God had used me to be the gift of life to my aunt and uncle – they never had children of their own. His extended family was childless, and I was a gift from God for them as well. The paradox was I didn't see it that way and grew to believe I was a victim. When I came to my senses and stopped obsessing over pride – I realized what I was to these priceless people. I was a moment of joy in an otherwise dull life of hard work.

When my Aunt Dot died in February of 2002, I inherited this farm, but it wasn’t until my wife died in April of 2018 that I returned to the farmhouse where I grew up. Both of these women's death had a significant impact on me because of their input into my life.

My wife’s death was the most tragic, she was the wife of my youth, and the love of my life. It has taken me two years to get over her death. I decided that when I got to the emotional state where I missed her but was not sad, my heart was healed. I judged that emotions and feelings are different. To be sad is an emotional response to a loss, and it implies that the healing of a broken heart has not finished. Missing her is a feeling that motivates thought, and now I remember her laugh, her smile, and the joy she brought me by being Judy Cash. I'm in a good place emotionally regarding her death, because I can remember the good times, and what she looked like. It was a scary place when I had to look at a picture to recall her face. Another of the indicators that a person is dealing with hidden trauma is not being able to feel. Numbness is a subtle revealing of a heart shutting down.

The heart produces feelings, feelings, produce thoughts, and thoughts produce emotions. If my feelings conceive good thoughts, then I'll have similar emotions, and it's an indicator of a healed heart.

When Aunt Dot passed away, I wrote an essay about the place where I live and the people in my life. I wrote to lance the wound in my heart and drain the hurt away. It's more effective than becoming an alcoholic. Which is the way my father coped with his problems? So, I knew not to go there – instead, I wrote. When Judy died, I wrote the book 'Choosing to Mourn' so I could lance the wound in my heart and let it drain. In a way, the book and this blog are a testimony to God's faithfulness to me.

I usually sit on the front porch early in the morning and watch the sun wake up and climb the pine trees across the road. To some, my lifestyle must seem tedious, but to me – it is the absence of stress. It is the absence of striving to please someone who determines your financial future. It is a peace that I treasure and value. If wishes were real, I'd wish for Judy to be here with me – healed, whole, and well. But wishes are not real, God is real. Judy died from cancer – and that is real. God didn't take her; she just couldn’t sustain life anymore.

So, I'm going to live out my days writing, farming, traveling, and best of all being a grandfather. I have two sons, and they married well, I love both of my daughters-in-law, and they love me. My youngest son Daniel and his wife have three children under the age of four. Oh yeah! A three-year-old girl, and twins – a boy and a girl who are nine months old. My oldest son lives in Raleigh. Matthew and Emily are my closest family as Daniel and Cristina live in Atlanta, Georgia – which is many zip-codes away. The beauty of retirement is the time to travel, and time is like smoke, here now and then gone. So, I’ve resolved that I will venture away from the farm to see what I haven’t seen – visit the people I love, and write about it. Because it just may interest you, and it satisfies a need in me to tell a story.